All That's Left
by MaplePucks
Summary: The nations continue to battle against their 2P! counter parts. This time, England has a nasty run in with 2P!France. The real France comes to his rescue but with a bullet laced with poison now affecting his blood, England doesn't have long. Can France save England? When will this nightmare be over? *Violence, heavy with FrUk, sexual themes, language*


**The very last installment of the "Cupcakes and Roses" story line. I am very proud at how this turned out. I believe it's a good place to end it. **  
**My Deviant Watchers got this in two separate parts. Consider yourself lucky you are getting to read it as originally intended. ^^**

**Enjoy, thank you for reading and as always reviews are away awesome!**

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A nightmare, that had to be the only explanation as to what was going on, England thought as he rubbed his eyes wearily. One moment they had been having a perfectly normal meeting then all hell had broken loose. The imposters, those people who inexplicably looked like them had surrounded and just attacked. Without warning, it had caught him so off guard, had it not been for France pulling him away out of that room, he might have stood there in shock and gotten himself killed. Covered in Germany's blood, he had begun running down the hall towed by a petrified France. He remembered feeling the man trembling through his fingertips, he had been so scared. England had never seen him that terrified, even in battle, it honestly made himself more scared.

Just when he thought they were going to make it out, escape with their lives, he had been pulled away from France, a door had slammed and he found himself locked in a room with this man. He looked like France, in build and had a similar facial structure but he was very different. The beard was too scruffy, the white blond hair was still obnoxiously long if not longer but unkempt, and his eyes were cold. They were gray, unloving, uncaring and lifeless. England rubbed his own eyes harder, yes all a nightmare. He must be about to wake up soon.

Suddenly, there was a loud slamming noise right beside his head. England's eyes flew open and he found the dead gray eyes inches from him. The look-a-like had him almost pinned against the door. He went to move away but the France wannabe leaned in close to him, to his ear.

"I would stay put, I do not wish to 'urt you." He said. England cringed, they apparently shared one trait. This man's breath reeked of cigarette smoke and wine as well.

"That's a farce! You've been killing us since you arrived! I demand to know who you are!" England shot back. He did not believe for one moment this man was not going to hurt him.

"I 'ave not killed anyone, I 'ave been waiting 'ere in zhis room for you. My name is Francis Bonnefoy." He replied calmly. England wished he would back up, instead he seemed to be getting closer.

"What do you want with us? Why are you killing off nations?" England asked, trying to push himself closer to the door. For a moment, he thought he saw irritation flicker across Francis's eyes. It reminded him of France, how he could get very irritated though it did take much more than simple questioning to do it. England almost wanted to smile, he loved to make that man irritated.

"Zhis whole thing was Arthur's idea, killing zhe nations. I don't know why, I think 'e was bored or zomething. I do not care what his reasons are," he said now pressing his hips against England's. He could feel his heart quicken with panic. "I just wanted you." Francis now whispered. He moved his hand from the wall and placed it on England's chest. Slowly, he slid his hand down fingering the material has he went gently. England froze when he realized the man was still moving past his belt. The nation began to squirm, he had to get away from this maniac.

"What is it you want from me exactly?" England asked, resisting the strong urge to spit in this man's face. To his shock, Francis raised his other hand to reveal the he was holding a shotgun. He pressed the broad side of the barrel against England's face and put his lips on his other cheek. England shuttered.

"It's best you do not know." Francis said quietly. Gently, he ran his tongue up the side of England's face. This bearded bastard actually had the audacity to lick him! England had had enough, roughly he shoved Francis away and ran to the center of the room. The man wasn't angry, or at least he couldn't tell otherwise, his face remained cold. He did raise his shotgun, however. England dove behind a nearby desk as he fired at him. Damn, not quick enough. The bullet managed to graze his right arm.

With blood beginning to run down his arm, England began to panic. Desperately, he searched his pockets for some kind of weapon, finding only a bottle of scotch. That wouldn't do, what a mess he was in he thought. No weapon, a wounded arm and no one to come help him, England couldn't see a way out. He took a moment to look at his arm, the green material of his jacket was singed and tattered the wound it's self was fairly deep but he had had worse on the battlefield. It wasn't painful now but that was due to the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He would definitely be feeling it later he thought as he unscrewed to the cap on the Scotch.

As he took a small swallow, he heard Francis's boots on the hardwood floor. They came closer and he took another drink, this was it. Finally, Francis's rounded the corner of the desk as England took one last drink, the man actually laughed.

"Good, zhat will make things easier!" He exclaimed lunging forward towards England, he reacted almost instinctively. There was no way he was going to let this man have his way with him.

"Oi! Imposter Frog! Get the bloody hell away from me, wanker!" he yelled. In one fluid motion, he jerked the arm holding the open bottle of Scotch up, splashing the alcohol into those dead eyes.

Francis stumbled back yelling in pain and rubbing as his eyes. There was hope, England thought as he scrambled from behind the desk. Francis fell to the ground writhing in pain, screaming out vulgarities. Next step, next step England's mind started racing. Find France, make sure he was safe. God, if something had happened to France he wasn't sure what he'd do. He already had the sinking feeling that he had lost America and Canada, due to their suspicious absence from the meeting. Not France, he pleaded, don't take him.

Just as he made it to the door, it swung open forcefully, making him retreat back to the center of the room in case it was another fake nation. When he looked back, however, he was relieved. It was France covered in someone else's blood and oddly icing but he seemed to be ok. England watched as he frantically scanned the room before his eyes finally landed on him. The shockingly blue eye he loved, normally fairly calm but now had fear in them. The fear lifted slightly as France rushed over, throwing his arms around England pulling him into an embrace. It was unexpected but England threw his uninjured arm around him as well, drawing him closer to him. The smell of his cloak made him happy, it was France's signature smell. Roses and wine. He would never admit it out loud but England could have honestly stayed in this man's arms forever. England gripped him tight, he was still trembling even harder now. He wished he would calm down, everything was going to be ok now.

Sadly, France pulled away and looked him over. His eyes grew wide when he saw his arm and he reached over to pull back the material for a closer look.

"Zhat looks bad Angleterre, are you ok mon ami?" he asked concerned laced in his voice. England put up his front as usual, slapping his hand away roughly getting irritated.

"It's just a small wound. You git, I'll be fi-" he started to say but was cut off by a loud bang that echoed across the room. England saw France's eyes glance down and then grow wide again, this time tears spilling from them.

"N-non! Mon Dieu!" France screamed.

Pain, a kind reminiscent of pain he had felt many times before on the battlefield, radiated through his chest. It was different this time though, he knew it. This was very bad. His heart started pounding faster, erratically, he could feel his lungs struggling to contract. To even take a single breath was now painful, the air both refusing to go in and come out. The blood pulsed rapidly through his veins and down his chest. He felt the warm liquid saturating his clothes, flowing from his new wound. As he staggered back bumping and then sliding down to sit against the desk, he realized what kind of pain this must be. A human pain, one that could only be felt once in a lifetime.

He looked down at his chest and saw the gaping wound, still oozing blood. Everything seemed to slow down after that. This pain, it must be death. Interesting, he never thought he would get to feel death. He looked up and saw Francis there, shotgun smoking and malice in his eyes. This was the first time he had seen full emotion in those eyes. Slowly, he raised the gun again, this time pointing it straight at England's head. England saw a blur of blue race in front of him and Francis growled in anger.

"If I could, I would prefer to kill you since you murdered Arthur but your precious England will 'ave to do. Now move!" he yelled. England sensed the pain in his voice, that was unexpected he thought. A spasm suddenly gripped his heart causing him to groan.

"'ow do you know I killed 'im?" France asked, glancing quickly down to England and back up again.

"Arthur wouldn't 'ave let you go free. If you 'ad even eaten one of zhose cupcakes you are covered with, you would be dead." Francis said, his eyes coming to rest on France's hand. England followed and saw the bloody rose gripped tightly in France's fist. "You killed 'im with a rose?" he asked, clearly confused. All France could was nod at him. Bloody brilliant, England thought. He tried to laugh but ended up throwing himself into a horrible coughing fit.

France was by his side in an instant, dropping the rose placing his hand on his face. England turned to look at him, he looked concerned. Slowly, England started to tremble and his vision begun to get hazy. He could still see France but he was distorted, fuzzy. He felt France press his free hand against his wound hard, trying his best to stop the bleeding.

"'ang in zhere mon amore. You 'ave been 'urt worse zhen zhis before non? You will survive zhis, it is no different!" France said. Now his hearing was beginning to go, France sounded muffled and far away. England reached up and grabbed the hand on his chest squeezing it tight.

"But it is different…I-I think…I'm dying." he said. Not only were the words odd to hear with them came the taste of metal. His mouth filled with blood and he let it spill out. France pulled him in close.

"Non! You are a nation! 'ow is zhat possible!" He yelled. This time Francis did laugh.

"'e is right. My bullets are laced with the same poison as zhe cupcakes. Your England is going to die." He said, nonchalantly as he began to laugh at them. It felt for a moment like France had partially collapsed onto England.

Poison, of course, that was what he could feel coursing through his veins. Attacking him from the inside, that was a clever one England thought. These people were smart after all. He felt France put his forehead against his own.

"Angleterre…" he whispered. England began to feel hot tears on his cheeks. It broke his heart, as much as he did argue and get upset with this man he did love him. He had always loved him, ever since they were children. France had always been there for him, even if it was just to argue or make fun of his cooking. Always present, no matter how England had treated him. His one true friend, one he would always be grateful for having.

Gently, he leaned up and pressed his lips against France's and immediately got the return action. He was glad France choose to ignore the blood that was now around his mouth, just to have this last kiss. He let himself take in all the details, how soft his lips were, how warm they were, the feel of the tip of his nose against his wet cheek and the taste of nicotine that was always there. A good bye kiss to remember. England jerked away as he suddenly began coughing again.

"I always…loved you." He struggled, feeling his heart slowing down. Not yet! France smiled at him lovingly, there were the blue eyes he loved.

"Et je vous ma belle Angleterre." He replied. England nodded, he had been with the man long enough to pick up some French along the way. He heard Francis laugh harder.

"'ow touching." He said staring at France with hatred.

England felt France grip his hand tighter, throwing his head from side to side as if looking for something. At the same time, England felt his own grip get weaker and his breathing slowing down. If he didn't know any better he could of sworn he felt his organs shutting down one by one. The flow of blood had even slowed, everything was stopping.

Suddenly, to both Francis and England's surprise, France jumped up and race out of the room into the hall. The feel of his fingertips still lingered on England's skin. He sighed, perhaps that was for the best. He didn't want him to see this, his death. Maybe France could still make it out alive, live on without him. England would pray for that, better still in a few minutes he could tell God himself. Assuming he was destined for heaven, he had never given the afterlife much thought.

England's vision had gotten much darker and he slumped further down the desk. The pain had almost entirely gone, he nearly at peace. He glanced up one last time to see France had returned, carrying something large. He tried to blink to see what it was but his eyes were too heavy. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He must want to fight Francis and had gone to get a weapon.

"No…you git. R-run aw-" England took one more ragged breath and fell sideways to the floor.

* * *

Once again, France found himself without a weapon of any kind save for the rose he had already used. Somehow, he didn't believe that was going to be of any help against a shotgun. Frustration mixed in with all the other emotions he was feeling. Why was this conference center not better equipped for an attack? France silently swore that if he made it out of this alive, he would make sure that the unpreparedness never happened again. Next time they would be ready, he gulped hopefully there wouldn't be a next time. Finally, something in the hallway caught his attention, that would have to do. France was hesitant, however, to go get it for two reasons. One he didn't want to leave England's side who was getting paler with every moment and two, he wasn't certain the weapons previous victim was dead. He shook his head, he had decided he needed to do something regardless.

Mustering every ounce of courage he possibly had left he jumped up and dashed into the hall. He heard England let out a faint gasp and he felt bad. He knew the move would be seen as him running away, abandoning England. Nothing could be further from the truth, he wanted to save him. There was still some hope he could, he wasn't sure what kind of poison was in that bullet but if he could get him to the hospital he would be fine. France skidded to a halt and looked down, his heart falling to the pit of his stomach. Denmark laid there, his own battle axe protruding from his chest looking up at France with fear. Now what was he supposed to do?

France bent down to examine the situation more closely. The axe was imbedded three or four inches into his chest and France could see blood trying to work its way up, around it to the surface. This was not good, France needed that axe but so did Denmark, it was the only thing keeping him alive. His raspy breaths reminded him of England. Time was running out! France bite his lip, looking Denmark up and down.

Suddenly, Denmark's expression changed, instead of fear he now had a look of understanding. He placed his hand on the axe and nodded.

"T-take it, F-France." He said. France was shocked and shook his head fervently.

"Non! I will 'ave to find anozer weapon!" he yelled looking around again. Nothing, not a damn thing! This hallway was barren, like all the rooms. Denmark gave France one of his big grins.

"No t-time Franney. W-we are at w-war of sorts right? S-sacrifices must be m-made!" he grunted pushing up on the axe. France froze for a moment as he watched the freed blood rush to the surface. Denmark was managing to pull it out of one side but was just pushing it further into the other. France had had enough and placed his hands on the handle. Denmark let his fall to his side and closed his eyes. France took in one deep breath and let out a small sigh.

"Je suis désolé, mon ami." He whispered as he yanked up on the axe, freeing it from his chest.

Denmark arched his back and screamed through his gritted teeth. The blood came rushing out, trailing up behind the axe. Never had France seen that much blood from a wound, a wound he felt he had partially caused. Nevertheless, he didn't linger around for Denmark's final breath. He had seen enough death and he wanted to prevent anymore.

Racing back into the room with the weapon raised high and breathing hard he subconsciously glanced over to England. He was smiling, peacefully sitting a little lower than he had been. For a moment he glanced up to France and blinked hard at him. France knew he didn't have much longer. He managed to tear his eyes away from him and back onto Francis, when he did he thought he heard England try to tell him something. France needed to block him out for the moment, Francis was his target and he was staring at him with disgust.

Anger started to rise again, the same kind of anger he felt when he found out Canada and America were dead. Tired of waiting for something to happen, tired of fighting and definitely tired of staring at this form of himself. He yelled and launched into an attack.

Even though the axe was big and heavy, France swung it easily. Using its own momentum to his full advantage, he started to laugh watching Francis just barely getting out of the way. At one point he raised his gun to fire but France had merely knocked it out of his hands with one mighty swing, nearly nicking his fingers off. It had been such a long time since he did combat like this, he had forgotten how exhilarating it was. The adrenaline pumping through his veins, mind completely focused on the next move. Yes, he was still very strong. Strong enough to save England and the others.

Finally, he had gotten Francis blocked into a corner. Both of them were breathing heavily and sweating, staring at each other with anger. France's fist gripped the handle tighter, he was ready for the kill shot.

"Artie was zhe strongest, 'e never saw 'is life as meaningless like zhe rest of us. So do it, 'e has lead us to our meaningless deaths!" Francis spat at him. France almost felt some pity for him but then he remembered Germany, Italy, America…Canada…E-England, practically his whole family! Gone because of them, these monsters! Anger replaced the pity in an instant.

He didn't say a word but swung the axe at his neck with all his might. A clean slice, striking all the way to the wall, making it get lodged into the oak paneling. France let go and watched as the body fell to the floor but the head stayed precariously perched on top of the blade. Blood dripped from the edge and France gave a sigh of relief.

"Angleterre! It'z over! Zhe nightmare iz…" France started to yell out happily but when he turned around it got caught in his throat. He froze, England was now lying flat on the floor, still. No, he couldn't possibly be yet! France shook his head and sped over, bringing him up off the floor so that he rested against the desk again. He tried hard to ignore England's already cold skin.

"Mon amore?" he asked timidly, sincerely hoping for a response. England remained still and quiet. France placed his hand on his chest, no heartbeat. It was certain that he was but France persisted, ignoring the voice of reason.

"Angleterre?" He asked again, this time checking for a pulse on his neck while shaking his shoulders gently. Nothing, no breath, no signs of any life. France couldn't bring himself to accept it.

"England!" He yelled, running his fingers through his hair then grabbing the side of his face to make the lifeless man look at him. The once sparkling emeralds were now dull and placid.

France didn't cry, didn't wail or scream out. He placed a gentle kiss on England's forehead, then his nose and finally his lips. Just briefly he gathered him into his arms and held him close. He would always love this man, death would not change that. He said a silent prayer and laid him gently back on the floor, closing England's eyes for good.

Though his knees were weak and his sprits just as so, he walked out into the hallway to survey the damage. Blood and bodies were everywhere, many of the nations and micronations had fallen to the imposters. Even still, he could see survivors as he walked down the hallway. Austria was in a side room, using his handkerchief to wipe some foreign blood off of Hungary's cheek. A little ways down, he saw Japan putting his katana back into its sheath. The poor man had lost just about has much has France had, with both Italy and Germany falling to the monsters. France felt sorry for him.

Relief sweep over him however when he saw his too best friends alive. Prussia was helping Spain carry some the bodies into a spare room. France wondered for a moment if he should tell Prussia about Canada now. He had never really like the idea of his son dating his best friend but they had loved each other and had been good for each other. When Prussia looked over, he saw that there was no need. He gave France a solemn nod and let a lone tear fall. He already knew somehow. France gave him a nod in return and continued down the hall.

Finally, he made it to the large conference hall, where this whole mess had started and begun looking around. He wasn't sure why he was here, clues maybe but all he could see was the carnage. How were they going to get past this? How would they recover? How would he be able to recover? France shook his head and sighed glancing into a corner. He gasped, standing there huddled together alive were Sealand and Seychelles. They were trembling, terrified covered with the spatter of blood. He was shocked to see them but he wasted no time and raced over, bringing them into a tight embrace.

This was all that was left of his family, and France was thankful he had this much.


End file.
